


Addicted to Bad Ideas

by runawayballista



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Drabble Collection, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:43:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runawayballista/pseuds/runawayballista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short fic done in response to prompts to the folks from roostertumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cats on the Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wash makes a fatal slip of the tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't for a prompt, but was rather a response to a joke floating around roostertumblr some time ago.

“ _What_ did you call me?”

CT has stopped dead in her tracks and she’s looking at Wash with that dead-eyed expression, her mouth pursed into a thin line, her little nose scrunched up in a combination of disgust and displeasure. Wash takes one step back, his hands going up in defense, and he tries to give her an uneasy smile but it comes out mangled and wrecked.

“I -- I called you CT! Just like you keep telling me to!”

“ _No_ ,” says CT, taking another step toward him for every one he takes away. She looks almost predatory -- angry. “You called me _kitty_.”

“Uh, no, I’m pretty sure you misheard me. I said -- ”

“ _Kitty_.” The look she gives him -- disbelief and utter disdain -- is searing, and it cuts right through him. “What the hell, Wash?”

“I just -- ” Wash’s eyes dart around the room desperately, looking to settle on anything but CT’s face. “It’s not -- I had cats on the brain, okay?”

“You -- _what_?”

There’s nothing he can really say that won’t make it worse, won’t come out sounding _incredibly stupid_ , so he just huffs out a breath. “I was -- looking at cats. Pictures of cats. Yes, CT, _cats_. And I just -- I just misspoke, okay? _God_.”

The seething disgust melts away and she just gives him a look of sheer bafflement, like he’s got something on his face. As far as he’s concerned, that’s even worse. “ _Cats_?”

“Yeah, CT. Cats.” Wash folds his arms over his chest and shoots her a haughty look. “What do _you_ do to unwind after a mission?”

CT just stares at him for a moment more and then shakes her head with a quiet _ugh_ in the back of her throat, pushing past him. “I can’t believe you.”

He turns as she goes, staring after her in befuddlement. He drops his arms to his sides, shoulders going slack, and he can’t help but call after her. “What’s so wrong with _cats_?”


	2. Making Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written in response to a prompt from Phaes: "The Director/Wyoming; tick tock goes the clock, but the party don't stop."

The way the Director’s goatee bristles against the skin of Wyoming’s neck with every hot, open-mouthed kiss is almost familiar to him now. It’s still a little jarring, the alternating sensations of sharp and soft, but there’s a certain thrill in it that he can’t deny, especially here in the dark of the briefing room. The light of the console casts a faint blue glow over them, just enough light to see by, but the Director doesn’t need light with the way he scrabbles at Wyoming’s chest, fingers finding the small zipper of his bodysuit all on their own.

Wyoming’s hands work their way under the Director’s shirt, fingers skimming over his skin, and the hair on his chest prickles against his fingertips much the same. It’s _different_. Wyoming is all right with different, though.

But even as the Director gives the zipper a sharp tug, pulling the bodysuit down around Wyoming’s shoulders, the agent glances at the clock on the console.

“Sir, perhaps we had better cut this short,” he says, licking at his lips (he’s not nervous -- although the Director cuts an intimidating figure, even when he’s lowering himself to his knees). “We do seem to be running low on time.”

“Agent Wyoming,” comes the Director’s lazy drawl, as he tugs the bodysuit down to Wyoming’s waist, lips dragging from his neck to mouth over his collarbone, “I do believe we can _make_ time.”


	3. Self-Efficacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written in response to a prompt from Phaes: "it's more than York's eye that gets damaged in the fight with Tex."

The blurry vision was starting to get to him.

The Sarcophagus job hadn’t been that bad. He’d been fresh out of the hospital, itching to get back into the field, and the medics hadn’t taken the patch away from his eye yet. There’d been too much going on in that mission to worry anyway, too much adrenaline pumping through him, and they hadn’t told him yet, hadn’t really realized that there was no way he was going to recover fully from that injury. He hadn’t been _thinking_ about it.

But in the aftermath of the clusterfuck that was his first mission after the accident, it started to sink in. The dust was settling. They took the patch off because there was nothing else they could do for him, and it was better for him to learn to use his eye like this than put all the strain on his good eye. But York just shrugged it off like he did everything else when they told him, just smiling at the lines of concern etched into their faces. Hey, no one took a grenade blast to the face without consequences.

He’d learn to work with it; that’s what he told himself, day after day, as he stared at data, at lock schematics, trying to reconcile the blurry patches weaving into his vision with the picture he knew he was supposed to be seeing. It was distracting, the way his vision swam and swirled when he tried to focus, and more than anything else, it _ached_. He tried to go back to wearing a patch, because no depth perception was better than _this_ , but all he got for his efforts were splitting headaches. And when he bombed a training exercise because he couldn’t focus, couldn’t _see_ right, sending fake alarms out all over the training area, the only thing he felt was burning disappointment. He wasn’t losing his edge -- he’d already lost it, and it was that sinking realization that stung more than anything else.

“Hey,” Carolina said, her tone obviously meant to be encouraging, and she put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I know you’ll be ready for the mission tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he said, but his voice was lacking in any confidence. He just got to his feet, and her hand slid away from his shoulder. “Yeah, I’ll be ready.”

But he wasn’t so sure, not anymore.


End file.
